


Hollow

by avioleta



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Insanity, M/M, Mindfuck, Rating: NC17, Slash, VampSlash, Vampire Sex, Vampires, mindreading, twislash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Carlisle fucks him, Edward knows it has nothing to do with love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> **Title** : Hollow  
>  **Rating** : NC-17, SLASH  
>  **Genre:** Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
>  Pairing **:** Edward/Carlisle  
>  **Details:** vampslash, AU  
>  **Word Count:** ~7,200  
>  **Status:** Complete.
> 
>  **Warnings:** explicit m/m sex; past (non-explicit) Carlisle/Esme; a little bit of blood; and quite a bit of angst.

  
  


1.

When Carlisle fucks him, Edward knows it has nothing to do with love.

No. When Carlisle fucks him, he's motivated only by blood and betrayal and loss.

And though Carlisle is an expert at shielding his mind, Edward knows he's thinking of Aro and Marcus and Caius.

The guard too, on days when he's particularly forceful. Sometimes, Edward catches glimpses of Felix (cruel hands, vicious mouth) or the little girl (lovely eyes, deadly red) who causes so much pain before the order to kill.

But in the spaces in between (sometimes murky dim polluted, but often brilliant bright shining to the bone) Edward knows he's there. He sees his own slim shoulders, narrow hips, flat stomach. Pink lips, honey eyes, and hair that will never be the right color.

Carlisle closes his eyes against the images, but they're branded hot across his eyelids, seared across his vision, blindingly exquisite and achingly devastating.

Edward parts his thighs wider, throws an arm over his head to brace himself, and pushes back into the man's thrusts. It forces him in harder, deeper, and Carlisle groans as his hips snap against Edward's.

He arches beneath him, jerks up again. His nails dig into the headboard, leave tiny half-moon imprints in the wood, reveal the pale grain beneath the dark surface.

"Careful, Edward," the man says; his voice is low and rough. "You'll do yourself damage."

"I don't care."

"I do." The man moves his hand to the curve of Edward's waist, holding him still. Edward growls, and Carlisle smirks, slowing his movements. His leisurely pace is maddening.

Edward wants him to fuck him hard and fast until he can think of nothing else aside from Carlisle and the way he feels inside him, splitting him open, pounding him into the mattress. But the man won't do it. He refuses to lose himself like that, refuses to shed that last layer of control.

After all, then he might forget. Forget that it's not love or affection or even lust that drives him to Edward's bed at night. No. It's nothing so indulgent, so weak.

Carlisle has never been ruled by his emotions, especially not now. Not when he's determined to never let himself feel again.

"God, just fuck me," Edward gasps as he clenches around him, jerks his hips ineffectually.

But Carlisle just laughs and continues to push in, pull out of him slowly, steadily. "I was under the impression that I was doing just that." Aside from the slight waver in his voice, the man is perfectly calm, collected, restrained.

Edward can't stand it.

He wraps his leg around Carlisle's hip, tries to pull him closer, force him to move faster. His other heel presses into the bed as he tilts his hips, tries not to cry out, not to beg for more. The sheets are twisted underneath him, his muscles ache, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is the press of Carlisle's skin against his own, the slick warm slide of his cock inside his body.

He reaches for his own cock; it's damp and hard (so hard) against his stomach. But Carlisle bats his hand away, "no."

Then he curls his own fingers around him. It's at once exquisite and not nearly enough. Carlisle's hand moves deliberately, carefully, as he strokes him up and down.

Edward has seen him manipulate his medical tools in a similar fashion, and he's not entirely sure if that disturbs him or turns him on. Perhaps it's a bit of both.

"Oh… _oh,_ yes," he hears himself say. "Do it. Get me off."

Something flashes in Carlisle's eyes. It's the closest he ever comes to letting his control slip. Edward likes it.

The man grabs his hip with his free hand, fingers pressing into Edward's skin.

He'll be bruised. (He's always bruised after they fuck.) Edward has spent hours in front of the mirror tracing the marks Carlisle leaves on his skin. Scratches crisscross his chest (some pink and fading, others still red and angry). He maps them with his fingers and remembers Carlisle's hands there. Some bruises are purple and bluish gray. Others are yellowing from days before.

The man's hips move faster now; his rhythm is off. The pleasure is razor sharp, and Edward wants it all.

He twists his fingers in the sheets, pulling them off the mattress, and clenches his eyes shut. Carlisle tugs at his cock, hand sliding over the slick smooth curve of cockhead, as his hips snap against his once more.

Then Carlisle leans forward, lips skimming along Edward's jaw before too sharp teeth nip at his neck. The sting of venom when he breaks the skin causes Edward to hiss, arch up beneath him.

It's enough.

Edward cries out as he comes, feeling warm wetness spill between them, smear across their stomachs as Carlisle pushes into him again, harder this time. Then he stiffens, cock jerking and pulsing as he spends himself.

Edward releases the breath he is holding. The man rolls over, and Edward forces himself not to groan at the sudden emptiness he feels when his cock slips from inside him.

He doesn't regret what they do together. No, not at all. Still, Edward can't help but feel a bit strange, a bit unsettled, whenever they're done fucking. It's as if his entire body has been lit with flame (the air around them heavy and intense: the thrum of electricity right before it rains).

He's given everything he possibly has to give, and he knows Carlisle will never have anything to give in return.

Edward sighs and tries to fight off the swell of sadness that threatens to wash over him as the man sits up, presses a perfunctory kiss to his temple, and makes his way to the bathroom. He returns a moment later with a warm washcloth.

Edward can't look at him as he carefully, gently wipes his stomach, his thighs clean. He can't look because he's certain his expression will say too much. Will give too much away.

And though Carlisle's thoughts are calm (tender even), they are nothing like his own.

The man smoothes the towel over his skin just as he prepares his lab table for work. His movements are precise and methodical; they always are. This cleansing is all part of the ritual (much like the fucking is). After all, this careful precision, his cool regard is the complete and polar opposite of Aro and the reckless brutality that resulted in Esme's death, that propelled Carlisle into Edward's bed in the first place.

And Edward despises that Carlisle wants (needs) him in _this_ way. And he hates himself for his own weakness, for giving into his own desires, his own love—

No. He stops himself short. He'll choke on the word before he lets it escape. It's only fantasy, of course. Carlisle will never have him in that way. Esme, his mate, the only person he'll ever truly love, is dead. And there is nothing Edward can do to change that.

So he lets him fuck him, bite him, kiss him until his mouth is blood red and swollen.

Afterward, Edward has barely managed to catch his breath when Carlisle is reaching for his pants on the floor. ( _The last twist of the knife._ ) They don't sleep, of course, so it would be absurd to expect him to stay. But Edward wishes that once, just once, the man would lie curled beside him (his head resting in the crook of his arm) for a little while.

2.

It's three days before he sees Carlisle again.

The man seems to be losing track of time more and more lately. It worries Edward, but a lot of things do.

Carlisle spends his days in his lab bent over the worktable. Edward has no idea what he's doing in there. He's also quite certain he doesn't want to know. He hasn't been to the hospital for weeks (months?), but then he wouldn't be expected to. After all, his wife is dead. It's natural for him to mourn her.

But Edward knows this is something different.

Emmett is gone. Without Rose, there is nothing left for him here.

And Alice and Jasper are planning to leave too. They've said nothing out loud, but they don't need to. Edward can hear the echoes of thought, murmurs in clips and fragments late at night when they are tucked away in their room (before Carlisle has come to bed).

It won't be long now.

He's quite certain Carlisle hasn't fed in weeks (far too long, considering his mental state). But the man doesn't seem to hear when Edward suggests they hunt.

Instead, he takes Edward's hand in his and leads him to his bedroom. "Undress for me." His voice is low and perfectly measured. He sits on the edge of the bed, expression blank, as Edward's fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt.

The man's cold detachment, his near clinical regard, should upset him, should (at the very least) temper the arousal he feels whenever Carlisle pays him any attention at all. But the intensity of his gaze (eyes black as pitch) sends spirals of want slipping through his veins. And the fact that Carlisle is here with him at all causes heat to bloom in the pit of his stomach, coil around the base of his spine, and flush his skin with warmth.

Edward stands there for a moment, shoulders back, spine straight, as Carlisle's eyes drift down his chest, follow the faint trail of hair disappearing into his pants. His thoughts are quiet, but his lips twist just so (the faintest hint of a smile). "Trousers too," he says. "I want to look at you."

And Edward blushes even as his finger pull his belt through the buckle and loop, tug at his zip. He pushes pants and boxers down at once, refusing to be embarrassed at how achingly hard he already is.

Carlisle stares.

And Edward knows he is aroused. The man's mind is a pastiche of images. Some are blurred like watercolors (a pale flash of skin, a soft brush of lips) or smeared like charcoals (his cock hard against his stomach as he straddles him, slides up and down, up and down). Others are grimy and smudged nearly out of focus (the touch of a palm against his cheek that speaks of far more than sex and want).

And then there are images that are mirror sharp, smooth as glass. They run like blood over Edward's skin (cloying and excruciating and almost too much to bear). The look on Esme's face, just moments before hands closed around her neck, her lips parted (the shape of an O), and her eyes locked on Carlisle (full only of acceptance and love, love, _love_ ).

Edward's chest clenches, and he knows everything has fallen apart. (Their entire world unraveled into pale threads), and he knows nothing will be right again.

That's why he's here, of course, naked and vulnerable and completely exposed, standing before the only man he's ever loved (who will never be able to love him back).

"Turn around."

And Edward does, slowly, deliberately, knowing Carlisle likes to look at him.

"Gorgeous."

As the word unfurls between them, Edward can't help but feel a thrill of excitement twine round his heart. But then again, Carlisle has always thought him beautiful (from the first moment he saw him, pale and dying in that hospital bed). And beauty, Edward knows, has very little to do with love.

"Come here." Carlisle's voice is soft now, nearly tender, and when he slides his hands up and down Edward's arms, fingers circling his biceps, tracing the curve of an elbow, his touch is reverent and gentle (but not loving, never loving). And Edward knows Carlisle cares for him. He will always care for him, but it will never be for the right reasons.

Still, Edward sighs, arches into his touch, and does not begin to contemplate the man's motivations.

It is enough that he's here with him now.

Carlisle's hands drop to his waist; his fingers skim softly over hipbones before tracing the shadow that runs along the curve of his thigh. Edward trembles and wants, _wants, wants…_

"Oh… _oh,_ God," he gasps, and the man chuckles, a warm sound deep in his chest that does delicious things to Edward's skin.

"Touch me, please." Sometimes, Edward finds he's not above begging.

"No," the man responds, and Edward squirms, trying to force Carlisle's fingers to his cock, but he holds him fast, won't let him move.

Edward groans.

And Carlisle's smirk is infuriating. "Tonight, I think I'd rather suck you. Let you thrust into my mouth until that pretty cock of yours comes down my throat."

Oh. " _Oh, fuck_ …" He's shaking now, stomach muscles taut and tight. He clenches his hands into fists, feels the sharp press of his nails into his palms, and tries desperately not to fall to pieces, not to cry out, not to come all over himself and the floor before Carlisle has so much as touched him.

He tugs Edward toward him, pulling him between the open slice of his thighs, and leans forward to exhale a warm cool gust of air on his skin.

Edward bites his lip and cannot look at the man's head between his legs. But then Carlisle's tongue (warm and wet and tantalizing slow) slips down the length of his shaft, then up and down again.

Edward's fingers are in Carlisle's hair, twisting and tugging, but he doesn't increase his pace, doesn't suck him into his perfect mouth. Instead he continues that tortuous slide until Edward is certain he can't stand it anymore.

"Oh… _Car—oh_ ," he gasps through gritted teeth. "It's too much. I'll come if you don't-"

With one more twist of his tongue, he pulls away, and Edward grips the base of his erection tightly, forces the urgency away.

"So respondent, so eager you are," the man says softly. "So close already. And I haven't even swallowed you down. Haven't let you fuck my mouth like I know you love to do."

Edward holds his breath, grips his cock tighter. The pain is a welcome counterpoint to Carlisle's teasing touch. "Please…" He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as Carlisle watches him calmly, impassively.

If it weren't for the noticeable bulge in Carlisle's trousers, Edward would think he had no effect on the man at all.

"You're beautiful like that," he says after a moment.

"Like what?" he asks breathless, as the man's fingers stroke along his thighs. "Desperate and begging?"

"No. Hard," Carlisle smiles, "hard for me." He wets his lips; his eyes are very black. "So hard I think you might come even if I don't touch you at all."

Edward is trembling; he's close. He hates that the man can do this to him, and he is ashamed he can't resist (doesn't want to resist).

But still, the way the man looks at him never fails to thrill him to no end.

"Please," he says again, and Carlisle complies, leaning forward to take him into his mouth, sucking gently, curving one hand around Edward's hip to pull him closer, encourage him to rock forward, thrust into that perfect wet warm heat.

He moves his hips steadily, in and out, in and out again. The sounds Carlisle makes are breathtaking, erotic, divine as he swallows around his cock, and all too soon he's _there_. Edward feels the familiar burn coil around the base of his spine, tighten in his stomach, and make his muscles clench. And it's all he can do to gasp "Car— I'm…" before he's coming, jaw tight and knees weak, spurting down the man's perfect throat.

His legs would give out if Carlisle weren't holding him up.

3.

Sometimes, Edward watches Carlisle work.

He's not sure the man likes having him in his lab; most days it's clear he's merely tolerating his presence. But he's never asked him to leave, and Edward always sits off to the side, certain to keep well out of his way.

He enjoys watching the man's fingers on his instruments, their movements steady and skilled. He imagines those hands moving over his body the same way they wield a scalpel, a knife. They are always careful, always controlled. And Edward knows Carlisle has cataloged every inch of his skin, each knob of his spine and protrusion of his ribs, the jut of his hips, and every scar, every bruise left by his own teeth and hands.

Yes. Carlisle has catalogued his body much the same way he's catalogued the supplies in his lab. And Edward is pleased that he at least pays him as much regard as he does his experiments, his obsession.

4.

Carlisle has started talking to Esme again - only when he thinks Edward isn't listening, of course. But Edward is always listening. He could more easily cut off his own arm, slice his chest open, puncture his worthless lungs, than get out of the man's head.

Sometimes Edward lies on his back in the narrow hallway leading to Carlisle's workroom. The wood is cool against his skin, and he watches the sunlight play across the floor. It glints through the leaded windowpanes, pools in the corners, flickers across the ground like autumn leaves.

And Edward listens.

Perhaps someday all the edges will dissolve, and he will no longer need to distinguish himself from Carlisle. Then, in his mind, he will only see the other man's world (closer and closer still; thoughts shimmery and cold, streaming like water over the surface of his skin).

' _Oh, Carlisle, isn't it lovely? Fucking the boy who used to be your son.'_ And Esme's smile is soft and coy and brutally cruel all at once.

Carlisle doesn't even flinch. "He was never my son." Edward imagines the twist of his lips, the pale curve of his jaw. "And I'm doing the best I can."

' _Yes, yes, we all do.'_ Edward hears her voice so clearly, though it's only in his head. _'But don't you even miss me? A strange way to grieve, really, taking him to bed.'_ She pauses, trailing a finger over his worktable, _'to our bed, I might add.'_

When Carlisle responds, his voice is firm, fierce. "It will always be _our_ bed."

Edward knows this, but it still cuts quick to the core (thoughts that can tear him to ribbons, words that can rip him to shreds).

' _And yet,'_ Esme continues, _'he wishes he were there now. Naked and spread out, desperate for you.'_

Edward holds his breath, presses his spine flat to the floor, and waits. But Carlisle says nothing.

In his mind, Esme smiles again. She is still beautiful. Still perfect. Still gone.

Carlisle thinks, perhaps, Esme never used to say such vicious things.

Edward is not so sure.

5.

Two weeks later, Alice and Jasper leave.

Alice finds him in the drawing room, a blank piece of sheet music on the desk in front of him. It's been weeks since he's written anything at all. Weeks since he's done much more than sit and listen and wait for Carlisle to want him.

He won't play. Chopin is too intimate, and Edward doesn't think he'll ever manage Debussy again.

"You should come with us."

Edward looks up, startled. Alice's eyes are sad; he has no idea how long she's been standing there.

"To Texas," she says, when he doesn't respond. "Jasper hasn't been home in, well, ages." She smiles a bit at that, "and I've never been."

"I, no…" he shakes his head. "I can't."

"Edward," she says, sitting down beside him. Her fingers are soft and warn against his skin. He watches absently as her thumb slides back and forth across his knuckle. Her nails are a deep purple. (A memory slips across his mind. Carlisle's fingers curling around his biceps, leaving bruises the color of mauve.)

"Edward, look at me."

He does. Her eyes are flecked with gold.

"There is nothing for you here." Her fingertips brush along his jaw. "Come away with us. For just a little while, at least."

"I…no," he repeats again quietly.

She sighs. "I know you love him."

He feels his eyes go wide; his breath catches, sickly and warm in his throat. "No. No, I don't."

"Oh, Ed, sweetie," she strokes his face, cups his cheek in the palm of her hand.

Her touch is gentle. More gentle than Carlisle's, even. But that, he supposes, is to be expected.

"Sometimes we can't help whom we love," she says softly. "But you have to know he will never feel the same way."

He narrows his eyes; she cannot understand. But her thoughts (silver with pity, incandescent and clear) make him feel a bit sick.

"And what he's doing Edward, it's not meant to be done."

He hangs his head. They've never talked about Carlisle's work, but they both understand.

"Please Edward," she tries once more.

He closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry. I am. But I just can't."

She nods (shards of glass, thin and gleaming, slice to the quick), and she knows he will never leave him (could never leave him, would _die_ before he let that happen). She hates that it's come to this, but there is nothing more to do.

"Imagine leaving Jasper," he tries, voice just a bit desperate. "Imagine walking away."

She bites her lip (would cry if she could). "Oh, love, but that's just it. Jazz could never leave me."

And, of course, she's right. They are two parts to one whole, and Carlisle has already lost his other half.

"We'll be back," she says after a long moment, "someday. We won't be gone forever."

"I know." He forces a smile, though the curve of his lips feels awkward and out of place. "Someday."

But they both know that someday could be years or even decades for them. Time works differently when you've all the time in the world.

Alice gathers him into her arms then. Her breath is warm and ragged against his throat. "I'll watch out for you. I always do."

"I know."

6.

After four days, he can no longer hear Alice and Jasper. It's odd.

For as long as he can remember, they've occupied a distinct corner of his mind (neatly labeled, filed away). Rose and Emmett were always quiet, and Esme hasn't actually left, but Alice and Jasper were always in his head.

He wonders now if those spaces, the ones set aside for the thoughts of his siblings, will always be empty, or if he will find something else to fill the void they've left behind.

After a while, Edward starts counting, storing numbers in the recesses of his mind where Alice and Jasper used to be.

He knows there are exactly one hundred and twenty-six wooden slats in the hallway leading to Carlisle's workroom. Approximately eighteen across (staggered slightly) and seven laid out lengthwise from one end of the hall to the other. The wood is soft and pine, and he knows there are one hundred and fifty-two imperfections in the narrow stretch of floor. Scrapes and dents and scratches mar the no longer smooth surface.

Edward also knows exactly when the sun hits each portion of the hall. He follows it as it makes its way from east to west, as it creeps along the wall to puddle on the floor. He traces its path, basking in the warmth, watching the light shimmer on his exposed skin, play shadows across the hallway, creep closer and closer to the door.

Sometimes he stretches out, shielding his eyes from the bright morning light. Other times he curls up (much like a cat) and presses his back against the wall. The analogy amuses him; Alice always said he was much like a lion.

Perhaps if he were a cat it would be easier; perhaps then he wouldn't want what he can't have.

7.

When Edward was seventeen, he didn't know what love was.

He knew what the word meant, in the abstract (some sort of candy-colored concept), and the idea itself – vague as it was – conjured up all sorts of appropriate images (himself on his knee, holding a ring). But none of those ideas had anything to do with this feeling in his gut or the heat of his skin.

But then he was only seventeen, and he was dying and certain that love would never be for him.

As a newborn, Edward was concerned with little aside from blood, and he supposes that was a type of love. But it was nothing like this blinding, intoxicating, clinging, never want to stop touching kind of love.

Then there was Esme, and Edward hated the easy way Carlisle fell in love. He hated their casual touches. He hated their intimate whispers, and he hated ( _hated_ ) what they did together at night. But he didn't know why.

Rosalie would have been easy.

It was practically foolish not to fall in love with her. She was gorgeous (beyond gorgeous really), even if it did nothing for him. Edward would have had to be blind not to appreciate the aesthetics. She was funny, too (a wicked sense of humor once you got to know her). And Rose did it effortlessly. A twist of her neck, a flip of her hair. She could have had anyone. And, for a moment, she wanted Edward.

He liked her, of course. But even then he knew it wasn't love.

(Now she's gone, and was never his at all.)

And, had Edward really thought about it, he probably would have realized that what he liked most about her was her hair, her golden pale hair that was exactly the same shade as Carlisle's.

8.

They move together slowly. Carlisle snakes a hand around his waist, forearm supporting his weight, fingertips just teasing his cock. He can hear the pleasure in the man's labored breaths, and Edward hisses, rocks back into him, and groans.

He wants Carlisle to like this, to like _him_ , but he will never allow himself to say so. Still, he wants to make Carlisle happy. He wants him to roll over afterward and touch him and kiss him and tell him he loves—

No. He bites back the thought almost before it materializes. After all, he knows by now that Carlisle will not, _cannot_ belong to him.

9.

When Edward discovers the exact nature of Carlisle's work, he supposes he should be horrified. But, then again, he has to admit that part of him has probably known all along. Alice warned him. And he hears too much to ever be truly ignorant.

The man has been working with venom and blood for months. Edward knows this, yet he has done his best to ignore the implications.

The blood is mostly human.

Edward has seen the empty hospital and blood bank bags discarded throughout his workroom. They are piled on the long lab table and strewn across the narrow shelves. Edward knows the sight should be rather disturbing (would be, surely, if blood didn't appeal to him as it does).

But he can't remember the last time they had a human visitor (or any visitors at all), so such ghastly things mean very little.

Still, Edward wonders where Carlisle gets the blood.

He knows the man has always kept a small supply stockpiled just in case. Enough for one feeding (two at the most) should necessity ever demand it. But even when Edward accounts for the blood set aside for Rose and Emmett, for Alice and Jasper, for Esme from _before_ , he knows Carlisle has used much more.

10.

Edward is sitting in the workroom (on a stool in an out of the way corner) the first time Carlisle takes his own blood.

The man's thoughts are muted, masked under a layer of near frenzied emotion, but Edward thinks he understands. Carlisle believes that maybe the combination of vampire blood and venom will finally provide the answer he's been looking for.

Edward watches as he draws the blade (bright and deadly sharp) across a vein. Blood wells up for a moment then spills down his forearm. Edward wets his lips. Carlisle makes another cut. Precise, but deeper this time, and exactly parallel to the first. The gashes bleed freely as he makes a fist, tenses his muscles, catches the blood in a slender glass tube.

Edward wants to lick the wounds clean, seal them shut.

Instead, he watches, jaw set, as Carlisle fills vial after vial.

When the man has ten lined up, neatly and orderly on his lab table, he asks him to leave. Edward wants to protest but knows there is no point.

Exactly one week later, Edward finds out that Carlisle has kept the pieces of Esme's corpse.

But when he comes to his bed that night, Edward does not send him away.

11.

' _Why are you leading him on, Carlisle?'_ Esme's voice is teasing. Edward pulls his knees up to his chest and listens. He's in the hallway again. Waiting.

"I'm not," Carlisle says curtly. He's annoyed with her presence today, which is odd, Edward thinks, considering she's a figure of his masochistic imagination anyway.

But long ago Edward stopped trying to question the man's sanity. It would be futile.

' _Oh, but honey, you are.'_

Carlisle glares, but Esme ignores him, smoothes a stray hair back into the chignon curled at the nape of her neck. _'He waits for you every night. Even when you've ignored him for days.'_

The man watches her impassively. He looks tired, though, of course that's ridiculous. "I've done nothing to encourage his affection."

' _You don't need to.'_ Esme laughs (a sound like broken glass). _'It's sad, really, to think how he still hangs on your every word.'_

Carlisle busies himself arranging supplies on his worktable. Edward holds his breath.

Esme's words are like pale roots, digging down deeper and deeper into his skin, twisting like briars (sharp like thorns that never fail to make him bleed).

The man doesn't respond. After a long moment, Esme says softly, _'it will never work. It's been too long; it can't be done.'_

"Yes. It will." Carlisle's voice is resolute, "it has to."

Edward feels something break deep inside.

He thinks he might be sick.

12.

Sometimes, Edward tries to stay quiet when they fuck.

He knows by now that Esme was.

He bites his lip, presses his forearm to his mouth, and closes his eyes against the sensations as they threaten to overwhelm. Carlisle slips a hand under his knee, hooks his leg around his waist. The movement tilts Edward's hips upward, forces the man in even deeper.

He turns his head to the side, stifles a gasp in the pillow, and feels a shiver of want flash across Carlisle's skin. It is echoed by thoughts that shimmer and bleed across the man's mind. Edward sees himself in his eyes more and more these days. He is bombarded with images (Carlisle's hands on his hips, his thighs, pale fingers pressing dark bruises into his skin).

Edward can't help but arch up against him, clutch at his shoulders, and cry out.

And when his gaze flickers to the man's face, his eyes linger far longer than they should; suddenly Carlisle knows.

"Stop," he growls, "I want to hear you." His thrusts are hard, yet deliberate and slow. "Don't try to be like her. You can't. You won't" _(I don't want you to be.)_

The man doesn't say it out loud (will never say it out loud), but he doesn't need to. Something warm unfurls in Edward's stomach. "I lo—" Again, Edward bites back that simple word with a gasp, "oh, _God…oh_ ," and he comes and comes.

13.

' _You used to bring me lilacs. Called me your lilac girl.'_

Carlisle's breath catches. "I know."

' _And I loved you so much.'_ Esme's eyes are soft, as she stares out the workroom's only window. _'He loves you too, you know.'_ Her lips curl thoughtfully. _'I always said he'd fall for you. It was obvious even decades ago.'_

"You said a lot of things."

' _True,'_ she nods, glancing back at Carlisle. _'But I was right about this.'_

14.

When Carlisle asks him for a sample of his blood, his venom, Edward agrees without hesitation. After all, he would give the man anything, everything. Even if he came and asked for his life (folded neatly in a box, wrapped and tied with a pretty little bow), he would say _yes_. He wouldn't even have to think about it.

It's incredibly painful, but Edward doesn't care.

This lust ( _love, it's love_ ) is terrifying as it sears hot paths around his ribs to lick at his lungs like flame.

Edward watches as Carlisle separates blood from venom.

"Leave me now," the man says once the vials are neatly lined up on the worktable. The blood is black red (the color of murder but also love) next to the pale venom (silver like dreams but also death).

The man's thoughts are carefully blank, and Edward knows he doesn't want to know. So he leaves without a word.

15.

' _Carlisle_ ,' Esme says, _'there's nothing more you can do. I am gone. It's time you accepted that. Moved on with your life.'_

At this, Edward perks up, rolling over onto his stomach to better hear the conversation behind the closed door, deep inside the man's mind. In all these months, neither Carlisle nor his wife has suggested that, perhaps, her death was truly final.

"No. The man says. We are immortal. There must be something. Something I haven't thought of, something I haven't tried."

Edward hears the quiet, steady resolution in his voice, yet there's an underlying current there now too (shimmering just below the surface). An uncertainty that causes his voice, his thoughts to waver slightly. And Edward wonders why he hasn't noticed it before.

Esme smiles, but her lovely eyes are dark and sad. ' _No, love. You've done all you could and then some. It's time.'_

Carlisle chokes (the sound of a sob). "But you're everything to me. You always have been." ( _You're all I've ever had._ )

_'No. That's not true either. It hasn't been for quite some time.'_

Carlisle buries his face in his hands. Edward's heart clenches just a little at the image, but he doesn't open the door, doesn't go to him.

"I can't lose him too." When he speaks again, his voice is a mere whisper.

_'Then let me go.'_

16.

On a mild day in April (eight months, three weeks, two days since it all began), Carlisle places his wife's remains in a delicate rosewood box. It belonged to Esme's grandmother a lifetime ago and is beautiful, priceless, and perfectly fitting.

Carlisle sets the box on the grass in the middle of the pristine yard. Then they sit together on the back porch for a long while. The warm pinks and honeyed golds of the polished wood are lovely in the late afternoon sunlight.

Edward wants to reach out and touch the man, to twine their fingers together, to pull him into his arms, but he knows it's not his place (not here, not now), so he does none of these things.

Carlisle's mind is awash with images, each connected to memories he does not care to lose. There are cloud spat blues and waxy grays (Esme's hand in his as they walk together along the beach). There are bone china whites and rosy creams (the curve of Esme's shoulder, her cheek against a pillow).

And then there are the greens, verdant and shining. The canopy of the forest. Esme's laugh while they hunt. And Edward's eyes ( _yes, always Edward's eyes_ ), unlike any green he's ever seen. Lovely (so lovely) before any choice was ever made.

"All right," Carlisle says standing. "It's time." His voice is calm and low, but Edward knows it takes every ounce of his control, every last bit of his strength to say the words at all.

Edward stands too but remains on the porch as Carlisle walks out onto the grass. This is his task and his alone.

The man stands perfectly still for several long moments, shoulders back, spine perfectly straight. Then with a sound that is heartbreaking and raw, he drops to his knees. His fingers trace intricate patterns across the surface of the box. His touch is delicate, reverent, and loving, _loving_. And until this very moment, Edward is not sure he'll be able to go through with it.

But then Carlisle bends over, places a single kiss on the ornate lid, and begins speaking quickly and quietly (murmured endearments, whispered prayers).

For once, Edward doesn't listen. The last words between a husband and wife are a private thing. Then Carlisle pulls a slender box from his pocket and slips a single match from the case. He's chosen the long, delicate ones Esme purchased to keep by the fireplace. ( _'Should we have guests, of course. It might be nice to have a proper fire.')_

The significance is not lost on Edward.

Carlisle strikes the match (quick spark, orange red glow), then holds the flame to the kindling he's arranged around the lovely box. It catches quickly.

It won't be long now.

The smoke smells woodsy and sweet (insubstantial plumes, innocuous as fog but deadly and…final).

Carlisle has not moved. His jaw is set, hands clenched into fists at his sides. But his face is expressionless, unreadable, controlled. Edward closes his eyes as the flames lick the sides of the box, take hold and flare brilliant, radiant, and bright.

In less than ten minutes, there is nothing left but ash.

Carlisle stands perfectly still.

17.

The next morning, Edward finds Carlisle seated at the kitchen table. He's staring out the window and doesn't seem to notice Edward at all. At the scrape of the chair, he finally turns his head. His eyes are dark and incredibly sad, but Edward thinks, perhaps, his body is not so tense, nor his shoulders so tight.

A small, delicate urn sits in the center of the table.

The color is breathtaking (an airy silvery blue), and Edward wonders how long Carlisle has kept the vase for this purpose.

"Blown glass from Murano," Carlisle says softly. "Quite famous, really. Esme always thought it lovely."

Edward nods, though he's not entirely sure what to say.

Carlisle turns to the window again. It looks like rain.

If Edward dreamed, he would dream of Carlisle's hands running like water over his body.

18.

"I'm going to Wisconsin."

Edward looks up. Something cold twists in his gut, and he can't mask his surprise; he did not know the man intended to leave.

Carlisle must sense his concern because he brushes a finger along Edward's wrist before pulling away again. He feels the heat from the man's touch linger on his skin (memories of a kiss pound in the corners of his mind). "Not permanently," he says softly, eyes on Edward's face, "at least, I don't think so."

He frowns, confused.

Carlisle continues, "there's a lake that Esme was particularly fond of."

"I'll come with you."

The man doesn't look at him for a long time but reaches to take Edward's hand in his. "That would be nice."

19.

The lake is calm and still (clear like glass, reflecting the muted gray of the sky). Edward thinks, if he were to wade out, he could see down to the bottom. But he doesn't. He sits on the beach, knees pulled up to his chest, and watches Carlisle.

The man is barefoot by the water's edge. His khaki trousers are rolled up to his calves. He stands perfectly still, staring at some indecipherable point across the lake. But Edward knows he's not looking at anything at all. (Memories in bits and fragments. Some folded neatly in the corners of his mind. Others shifting like sand under the surface, rolling like wavebreak, swelling to the forefront before receding again.)

The delicate blue urn is cradled in his hands.

Finally, he's ready.

Gently, lovingly, Carlisle pours white gray ash into the palms of his hands. Some slips through his fingers, catches in the wind. He watches as it turns and twists, disappears into the breeze. Then he opens his hands and blows, makes the round O of his mouth (perfect as light, fresh as air - the color of Esme's hair, the curve of her waist, the arch of her foot).

For the briefest moment, the cloud of ash hangs, delicate and suspended (caught between what is and what will be).

Then it disperses, carried with the wind, his breath, out over the water.

(A memory of sunless dry lilacs, dust in the crevasses, smells of dust and decay.)

20.

Carlisle closes his eyes. The blow, administered quickly, is still painful. A festering wound. Edward thinks, perhaps, he can see the man bleeding (the sharpest blade slices tendon and tissue clean from the bone).

They have been sitting on the beach for a very long time.

Edward presses his fingers into the ground; the sand is cool and wet under his nails. The sound of the water against the shore soothes, and he does his best to listen to its hiss and lap and swell rather than the tumult of Carlisle's thoughts (the white self-destroying bloom of crest and roil).

But eventually, the anger and sadness and grief seems to bleed away, and Edward can listen again.

The pain is not gone, but it's better now (muted and dull, not naked, raw, and red).

Edward exhales. "I know how you feel." He barely whispers the words but knows the man hears.

Carlisle looks at him like he's crazy, and maybe he is. After all, his mate isn't dead. But Edward knows what it's like _not_ to have.

Something flickers in the man's eyes then, and though Edward hasn't said it (may never say it), he thinks, perhaps, Carlisle understands.

_(l love you. I love you. I love you.)_

He reaches out and brushes a fingertip against Edward's cheek. It's a gentle gesture, gently done. Then he takes his hand in his, and Edward looks down at their fingers twined together.

It isn't much, and it might never be much (poisoned from the start). But it is something.

"I'm glad you came."

Edward nods, runs his thumb across Carlisle's knuckles, and thinks he might be happy if he could just touch the man forever.

"Come on," Carlisle says. He stands, hand still laced with Edward's, "let's go home."

_**Fin.** _

  
  



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